


Here I Stand

by epeolatry



Series: Sexual Revolution [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Bi-Curiosity, Drunken Confessions, F/F, Gender Roles, Genderfuck, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Negotiation, Sexism, Sexual Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras is sexually ambiguous and Grantaire is dead drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here I Stand

As usual, Éponine was the last to arrive at the Corinthe, her shift at the club having only ended at midnight. As a result she was woefully behind the others in the drinking stakes. She knew this because firstly, Feuilly was losing badly to Bahorel at a game of pool rather than debating with Enjolras (his new favourite pastime), Bossuet was dancing (clumsily), and Grantaire was all but unconscious in the corner with Joly leaning over him worriedly.

 

Éponine may have been behind in drinking, but she was certainly ahead in other ways; her constantly working jaw gave her away to Musichetta at the bar who smirked, “Getting the party started without me?”

 

“Hey ‘Chetta,” Éponine grinned widely, “Got any free drinks left in you tonight?”

 

Musichetta was usually able to supply her friends with a few free shots of liquor thanks to the soft spot her manager had for her but tonight she merely grimaced and tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder, “Grantaire cleaned me out in fifteen minutes flat! You need to keep that boy on a leash.”

 

Éponine shrugged and pulled a wad of crumpled, sweaty notes out of her bra, “Double gin and tonic then, hold the ice.”

 

“As you wish, my lady,” smiled Musichetta prettily, before mixing the drink and generously sloshing in a triple measure of the spirit as Éponine handed over the cash.

 

“Cheers,” Éponine took the drink greedily, “When’s your shift end?”

 

Musichetta pulled another face, “An hour and a half.”

 

“That sucks. Well, Bossuet is dancing already, what do you wanna bet he’ll be spending the night on Joly’s sofa with a suspected broken limb?”

 

“Not without me he won’t be!” laughed Musichetta, “Besides, Joly’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”

 

Éponine wrinkled her nose, “Not my type.”

 

“No you’re right,” smirked Musichetta mischievously, “He’s not a certain freckle-faced law student…”

 

They both cast a look to the cluster of seats occupied by their friends, where Marius sat awkwardly beside Cosette on a sofa, his face a picture of smitten devotion while she chatted animatedly to Jehan, paying no attention at all to her boyfriend.

 

Éponine’s stomach lurched at the look on his face, and she forced herself to down half of her drink in one go.

 

“Whatever,” she shot back in response to Musichetta’s knowing grin, “I gotta pee. I want another drink waiting for me when I get back.”

 

And she stalked off to the ladies’ room, the remains of her gin and tonic sloshing in her glass as her eyes darted restlessly around the bar and her jaw clenched painfully.

 

**

 

Éponine was standing in the middle of the vanity fixing her hair in the mirror when Cosette stumbled in; there was nowhere for her to hide so she was forced to greet the giggling, drunken blonde.

 

“Hey.”

 

In truth, Éponine had never really spoken to Cosette before. Her distaste for the fashion student was founded solely on the blonde’s successful capture of Marius’ heart rather than on any actual dispute between them.

 

“Hey! Éponine, right?”

 

“Right. And you’re Cosette, Marius’ new girlfriend.”

 

“And you’re like, his oldest friend!”

 

 “I am?” The idea that Marius had mentioned her at all to his new paramour – let alone in such glowing terms! – made Éponine’s stomach clench almost as tightly as her jaw.

 

“Yeah _duh_ ,” Cosette rolled her beautiful blue eyes laughingly, “He talks about you all the time! Says he trusts you more than anyone.”

 

 

“Really?” Éponine was dumbfounded; did Marius really have so few friends?

 

Cosette nodded earnestly, slurring, “I wish he liked me half as much as he likes you!”

 

“But he _loves_ you!” blurted out Éponine, without meaning to.

 

Cosette smiled coyly with raised eyebrows, “We’ve been going out for two weeks – do you really think someone can fall in love that fast?”

 

 _Yes!_ Éponine wanted to scream, but she had regained control of her runaway tongue and instead said coolly, “I dunno. Maybe.”

 

Cosette nodded thoughtfully and turned to the mirror to fix her own hair, loosened from its usual side braid by the hours of drinking and dancing. Just as Éponine was about to leave, the blonde girl grabbed her hand and asked in a rush, “Hey can I ask you something? I mean, you’re his oldest friend…”

 

“Sure, I guess,” Éponine looked wary as Cosette continued to clasp her hand tightly.

 

“Marius – is he a virgin?”

 

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Éponine before she could suppress it, “Hah! I don’t know! I guess so… I mean, I’ve never heard him- He’s never talked about- What?”

 

Cosette was chewing her lip worriedly while running her thumb in small, distracted circles over the back of Éponine’s hand.

 

“I thought he must be. I mean, every time I… _you know_ … he just blushes bright pink and suddenly has somewhere else to be.”

 

“Maybe he just isn’t ready,” said Éponine with uncharacteristic softness.

 

“But he’s a _guy_! And _I’m_ ready! Shouldn’t he be too?” pouted Cosette, “It’s been months as it is, and I thought _finally_ , now I’ve got a boyfriend I’ll have sex on tap, but I’m even more frustrated! The more I try to coax him into it the more he shies away!”

 

Éponine couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. She hoped that it was just the cocaine in her system blurring the lines between reality and illusion and she was actually all alone in the bathroom hallucinating; failing that, all she could ask was that the drink waiting for her at the bar was quadruple strength – she would need it after this…

 

“Well, what have you tried?” asked Éponine, curious despite herself as Cosette’s delicate fingers entwined with her own.

 

“Just the regular stuff,” replied Cosette, her voice suddenly quiet, her blue eyes locked on Éponine’s with abrupt intensity.

 

The two girls were standing very close together, close enough that Éponine could almost count Cosette’s long eyelashes, each one perfectly defined with a light coating of mascara, no clumps, not a single one out of place.

 

“What, _exactly_ , have you tried?” asked Éponine, licking her suddenly dry lips in a gesture that was in no way meant to be at all sexual.

 

“Well, I’ve tried touching him… Holding hands and that sort of thing,” Cosette’s thumb began tracing slow circles on Éponine’s palm, “And more…”

 

The blonde took one hesitant step closer to Éponine, so close now that their bodies were almost pressed together.

 

“I’ve tried touching _more_ than his hands,” the fashion student hesitantly ran her free hand up Éponine’s back then let it rest on the darker girl’s hip; Éponine shivered, her skin alive with the touch, and she leaned in closer to the blonde.

 

“What else?” the dancer whispered huskily.

 

“We’ve kissed,” murmured Cosette, her blue eyes fixed now on Éponine’s mouth, “We’ve kissed _a lot_ …”

 

Suddenly Éponine’s lips were captured by Cosette’s, the blonde girl pulling her in with the hand on her hip. It was a sweet kiss, it tasted of rosé wine and strawberry lip balm, and Éponine could smell Cosette’s floral perfume under the slight musk of sweat that she’d worked up dancing. Éponine’s tongue slid out of its own accord, swiping across Cosette’s lower lip and making the other girl clutch her closer, moaning quietly as the kiss deepened.

 

Éponine’s hand rose up to wind itself in Cosette’s long hair as the student’s hand slid sensually up and down her back and sides, tracing light patterns through her thin dress. Their hips were pressed flush together and Éponine groaned as Cosette sucked on her lower lip, the feeling sending a rush of wet heat to her groin.

 

Cosette’s fingers crept hesitantly up Éponine’s thigh, inching their way under the short hemline of her dress, and the darker girl ground her hips into Cosette’s in encouragement as their tongues continued to dance hungrily.

 

Just as the blonde’s delicate fingertips met Éponine’s panty line however, a familiar voice chimed through the bathroom making the two girls leap guiltily apart as it said calmly, “You want to know Marius’ problem?”

 

Jehan had stepped out of one of the cubicles and was now washing his hands at the sink beside them, using far more soap than was strictly necessary and creating a miniature perfumed bubble bath in the basin. He cheerfully gave no sign that he had seen the pair making out a second before.

 

“ _Jehan_!” Cosette accused shrilly, “This is the _girl’s_ toilet!”

 

The epicene boy shrugged, “The boy’s smells bad. And no one ever stops me coming in here.”

 

“So what’s Marius’ problem?” Éponine asked quickly, focussing on the task at hand in a desperate attempt to block out the last few moments of her life.

 

“Marius has been exposed to too much of Courfeyrac’s pornography; he sees sex as being made up of equal parts animal lust and human shame. He can’t understand the poetry that two bodies moving as one can create.”

 

Cosette giggled and shot a sly look at Éponine, which the darker girl tried hard to ignore, “So what?”

 

“So you’re coming on too strong. Remember that Marius had barely even spoken to a girl before he started university. To him you’re still something strange and exotic, an unknown quantity, possibly fragile and certainly unstable and unpredictable. To his mind whatever is between you two is delicate, breakable, and he’s scared that by altering your existing dynamic in any way – by introducing sex, for instance – that he risks destroying what you already have. Marius is in the throes of first love, experiencing the agonies and ecstasies for the very first time, and I think that you pressuring him into sex too soon will drive him entirely out of his mind. You realise that he still announces to all of us every time you hold his hand? We get group texts whenever you kiss him… Marius thinks that you’re the delicate one in the relationship, that he needs to look after you, revere you even, but in reality he’s the fragile one. He’s not going to be ready to start a meaningful sexual relationship with you until he sees the two of you on an even footing.”

 

Cosette seemed overcome with emotion, her pretty face slack with sudden understanding, and there were tears in the corners of her big blue eyes as she hugged Jehan saying, “Oh Jehan, you’re so right! I don’t know how I didn’t see it before! Thank you so much! I’ve been so selfish, do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”

 

“Darling, I think Marius would forgive you absolutely anything,” smiled Jehan brightly, glad to have been of service.

 

Cosette beamed, seeming to have forgotten her momentary indiscretion with Éponine, and practically bounded out of the bathroom, stumbling a little in her heels as the drink caught up with her.

 

Éponine crossed her arms, ready for a fight, or for judgement, or anything really; defensive was her default. But none was forthcoming. Jehan simply continued smiling, and murmured, “Ah, young love. _This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath / May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet_.”

 

“For someone who goes out with Montparnasse you sure are poetic about shagging,” Éponine observed shrewdly, more than aware of the dandy’s penchant for rough sex.

 

Jehan shrugged, “It’s what I do.”

 

**

 

“How’s he doing?” Enjolras asked Joly, trying to sound empirical rather than worried.

 

“He’s fine, just very drunk. I hear from Musichetta that he’s been in worse states than this.”

 

Grantaire was unconscious. Or seemingly so. Every few minutes he would stir, open bleary eyes, mutter belligerently, dig weakly in his pocket for cigarettes that never materialised, and then he would fall back again, dead drunk.

 

“Shouldn’t someone take him home?”

 

“Are you volunteering?” Joly suggested with a smile; it was by now common knowledge that Grantaire had a crush on Enjolras, who bridled every time the subject was broached.

 

“Facetiousness doesn’t suit you,” snapped Enjolras, “Have a little care for your patient, _doctor_.”

 

Joly looked hurt and Enjolras immediately regretted his words, spoken out of embarrassment and drink. Whenever anyone had mentioned Grantaire to him recently his temper seemed to flare and all sorts of conflicting emotions came over him in an entirely new and unwelcome manner.

 

“Sorry,” the law student said gently, placing a placating hand on Joly’s arm, “It’s just… There’ve been a lot of jokes lately.”

 

“I know,” nodded Joly, “But not entirely undeserved. When exactly are you going to speak to him about it?”

 

Enjolras shook his head, “About what?”

 

“His feelings. _Your_ feelings..?”

 

“I have no feelings,” Enjolras snapped again, his mouth working faster than his brain.

 

“Fine,” Joly held up his hands in defeat, “That’s fine. But maybe you should tell him that.”

 

They both glanced at Grantaire, who had emerged into one of his semi-lucid periods and was struggling to remove his phone from his pocket. Joly rolled his eyes.

 

“I’m going to get another drink. Can you please take that off him? I don’t want him making any drunk calls he might regret.”

 

Enjolras sighed heavily, “Fine. But if you think that by leaving me alone with him you’ll induce me into speaking to him about these alleged _feelings_ you’re very wrong; I refuse to attempt serious conversation while he is reduced to the state of an infant.”

 

Both boys stood and stepped away in opposite directions, Joly towards the bar where he stayed for a good twenty minutes chatting with Musichetta, and Enjolras towards Grantaire who had found a lighter in his jacket and was clumsily trying to commit arson.

 

“Grantaire, _no_ ,” commanded Enjolras sternly, removing the lighter from slack fingers and sitting down beside the drunk.

 

“’Jolras,” slurred Grantaire joyfully, “’S good to see you. Have a drink!”

 

Enjolras was taken slightly aback by Grantaire’s friendly greeting of him; they hadn’t spoken face to face since the afternoon when Grantaire had left the law student’s house in a fury after Enjolras’ indiscreet question about his sexuality. He wasn’t entirely sure whether or not Grantaire had any recall of the apologetic text messages that had followed that debacle, and he’d been purposely late to the gathering that evening specifically to ensure that by the time of his arrival Grantaire would be too drunk to notice him sneaking in. The law student had steeled himself for vitriol and instead received conviviality.

 

“I’ve had a few already, thank you,” he said stiffly, trying not to notice as Grantaire slumped against him.

 

“I’ve missed you,” slurred the artist from somewhere around Enjolras’ elbow, and the student tried to suppress the relief he felt as he stared steadfastly at the wall opposite him.

 

“I’ve missed you too,” he admitted more quietly than was necessary, safe in the knowledge that Grantaire would most certainly not be remembering any of this the next morning.

 

“Whassat?” Grantaire had grasped Enjolras’ left hand and was examining his ring finger, the base of which was covered by a band of lettering.

 

“A tattoo.”

 

“Whas it say?”

 

“’Patria’. I had it done when I was fifteen.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why do you have all _your_ tattoos?” asked Enjolras, suddenly feeling defensive.

 

“No, why _there_? What if one day someone wanted to put a ring there?”

 

Enjolras chuckled, “I have always assumed that to be an impossible eventuality.”

 

“Because you’re asexual?”

 

“Because I’m a fighter, not a lover.”

 

“If you don’t like boys I get it,” slurred Grantaire, immediately making Enjolras’ face go hot as his staring contest with the wall intensified, “Actually if you don’t like me I get it. _I_ don’t like me, why should you?”

 

Enjolras felt a tug at his heart and cursed Jehan for every love poem he’d ever recited within earshot of the law student.

 

“I do like you.”

 

“No you don’t. And thas okay,” Grantaire hiccoughed and slid further down the sofa so that his head was almost resting in Enjolras’ lap.

 

That internal tug again, harder this time, and Enjolras sighed because now (much to his own annoyance) he was balanced precariously between hoping Grantaire would forget all of this and desperately wanting him to remember it. Before he could reason himself out of making the admission he said quickly, “I like you very much Grantaire. More than I’ve ever liked another person before.”

 

“More than Combeferre?” Grantaire asked, wide-eyed like a child.

 

Enjolras at last looked down, smiling tightly at the awestruck expression on the artist’s stubbled face, “More than Combeferre.”

 

“But you mean in a friend way right? ‘Cause you don’t do the messy stuff.”

 

Enjolras made a mental note to never speak to Jehan again. But as he did so the spinning in his head intensified, and it was most assuredly not caused by the alcoholic content of two beers, but rather by confusion at the feelings that were coursing through him as Grantaire continued to stare up at him with wide, appealing eyes.

 

“I… I don’t. I don’t usually… Grantaire, _I like you_ , can we just leave it at that?”

 

“Would you kiss me?”

 

Enjolras answered the drunken question with a strained silence as the war inside his head raged back and forth between intense feeling and firm indifference.

 

“If you like me we could be kissing friends. If you want,” Grantaire was slipping away now, his eyelids drooping back into unconsciousness as he murmured again, “If you want…”

 

Enjolras looked down at the dozing drunk, the way his wild, dark curls spilled over his face, the bluish circles under his eyes and the paint caught under his fingernails, the rent in one knee of his jeans that was clearly not there for fashion but rather as the result of some past drunken night… And for the first time in his strict, ordered life Enjolras didn’t know what to do.


End file.
